


Canine Complaints

by Gaby



Series: Canine 'verse [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaby/pseuds/Gaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adventures of Satchmo, the talking dog, continue! This time, Peter finds out about Satchmo’s special talent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canine Complaints

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Elrhiarhodan, because of reasons. She wanted more talking Satchmo, and so she gets more talking Satchmo! :)

If you really had a barrel full of monkeys, Peter mused, then it wouldn’t be very much fun because the ones on the bottom would get squashed.

That realization saddened him immensely, and he felt really bad for any monkeys that might have gotten squashed in the past. He wondered how many barrels of monkeys people actually had, and how high the average yearly squashed monkey ratio was.

Damn, that was depressing. Peter needed some cheering up. Another bite of El’s delicious brownies would do the trick. Why the hell did Neal take so long to get another plateful anyway? It wasn’t as if he had to sneak past El or anything. Granted, El _had_ said not to touch the batch of brownies she had made right before she had to leave the house for an emergency meeting with a hysterical bride, but it wasn’t as if there weren’t enough brownies left. El surely wouldn’t mind that he and Neal had sampled the goods.

And damn, the goods were _good_. They had never had such delicious brownies before.

Where the hell was Neal with the brownies anyway? Peter was still depressed from the squashed monkeys.

“Neal!” Peter bellowed demandingly.

“Peter!” came back from the kitchen in the same tone of voice.

Peter scowled. He didn’t want to be yelled at. He wanted brownies. And a hug. Those poor monkeys.

At that moment, Satchmo sauntered past Peter. “Hey, whazzup, bro?” And he disappeared into the kitchen.

Peter stared, completely baffled, in the direction his dog had disappeared to. His _talking_ dog. “Neal?!”

“Peter?!”

Peter opened his mouth to tell Neal about Satchmo, but then remembered a different kind of animal, and got depressed again. Maybe he should yell at Neal to finally get his butt in gear and bring some brownies instead. And speaking of butt, the floor was damn uncomfortable. Why was he sitting on the floor again?

Peter glared at the couch, which was close but not close enough. Peter was sitting on the floor, across the fireplace, leaning against the room divider they used as book shelves, his legs stretched out in front of him. Stupid couch. Maybe he should tell Neal to bring a pillow. That would make things more comfortable.

Yeah. A pillow would be good. But more brownies would be better.

Just when Peter opened his mouth again, Satchmo came wandering back into the living room. “Yo, how’s it hangin’, dude?” Satchmo gave Peter’s crotch a meaningful look, chortled to himself, and then continued on to his blanket.

Peter just stared at his dog, completely speechless.

At that moment, Neal finally appeared next to Peter, a plate in his hand. “Hey, you.” He handed over the plate and then slid down the wall next to Peter, only to lose his footing and slam on his butt with a loud yelp.

“About time,” Peter muttered, and looked at the plate.

“Hey, my butt hurts!” Neal complained. He leaned on his hip to relieve the pressure on his ass, and fell against Peter’s shoulder in the process. Neal immediately snuggled closer with a happy sigh. “Mmmm...snugglicious!”

“What took you so long anyway?”

“Couldn’t find a measuring tape.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Neal sighed and snuggled closer still. This resulted in him slowly but surely sliding down until his head was pillowed in Peter’s lap. “We were going to share fair and square, right? So I had to make sure to cut a square piece.” He giggled to himself. “Get it?”

Peter stared at the brownie on the plate. It was huge...and very precisely square. “This is the biggest brownie I’ve ever seen in my entire life!”

“Yeah, it’s almost a brown _stone_ ,” Neal replied before dissolving into a helpless fit of giggles.

Peter thought his lover was being completely ridiculous. Neal would _never_ wonder about squashed monkeys, inside or outside of barrels, for example. Which reminded him... “Satchmo can talk.”

“Yeah, he does that sometimes.” Neal shrugged as much as he could, curled up and with his head in Peter’s lap. He opened his mouth demandingly, expecting to be fed.

Peter was utterly confused by Neal’s statement. Still, he broke off a bite-sized piece of brownie and pushed it into Neal’s mouth.

At that moment, Satchmo walked past them on his way to the kitchen again. “Hey, how’re all y’all doin’ anyhow?” he drawled, nodding his head nonchalantly at them before rounding the corner.

“The Southern accent is new though,” Neal mumbled contemplatively around his mouthful of brownie.

Peter stared at the back of Neal’s head in disbelief. He seemed more shocked by the fact that Neal apparently knew about Satchmo’s special talent than the fact that Satchmo could actually talk. He pushed a large bite of brownie into his mouth and chewed on it contemplatively. All of this was extremely confusing.

Before Peter could actually comment on the weirdness of the situation, Satchmo came back and glared at them sternly. “Y’all ain’t gonna do none of that frisky nonsense, y’all hear me?” he asked, waving one front paw at them.

“Frisky nonsense?” Neal echoed, looking slightly preoccupied. He had the plate with juicy brownie right in front of his nose, and it was distracting, to say the least.

“I think the accent disturbs me more than the fact that Satchmo’s talking,” Peter muttered.

Satchmo huffed and sat down properly. He raised his chin. “I would greatly appreciate if you refrained from performing sexual intercourse in my humble abode,” he said in immaculate English.

Peter did a double-take at the sudden lack of accent. Then he realized what Satchmo had actually said, and did another double-take. “Wait...what? _Your_ humble abode? This is _my_ house!”

“Ours,” Neal corrected around a mouthful of brownie.

“I was referring to this particular part of the residence,” Satchmo replied, indicating the living room with a nod of his head. “I have taken extreme care _not_ to ask you to completely abstain from what appears to be your favorite pastime.” He gave Neal’s head in Peter’s lap, the close proximity of Neal’s mouth to Peter’s cock, a meaningful glare. “If you kindly contained your frivolous adventures to the upper floor, I would be much obliged.”

Neal blinked at the dog, utterly confused. “Whut?”

Peter just rubbed a hand over his face. “I think I preferred the accent,” he muttered.

Satchmo sighed deeply. “Look, pal,” he said, sounding like an annoyed teenager. “I’ve stopped peeking into your bedroom at night after Nealy-boy here told me he doesn’t like me watching you guys.” He leaned closer. “Not that I ever wanted to actually watch you! It just sort of...happened. All I ever wanted was to sleep next to your bed. The impromptu floor show was an unexpected bonus.”

“You told him he should stop watching us?” Peter asked Neal in total disbelief. The thought of Neal having this conversation with their dog boggled Peter’s mind.

“Not in so many words,” Neal replied, stuffing the rest of the brownie into his mouth. “But yeah.”

Peter looked at Satchmo. “I can’t believe you watched us!”

“I didn’t! At least not on purpose! For Lassie’s sake, are you even _listening_?!” Satchmo hung his head in defeat. “So, since I’m not supposed to watch you anymore, it’s kinda mean to get frisky down here, dontcha think? This is my part of the house. Want me to hide in your bedroom while you do naughty stuff in the living room? Geez, you two are worse than rabbits!” He got up with an annoyed huff and stalked off, muttering to himself under his breath. He made sure to whap Peter in the nose with his tail as he trotted past him.

Peter stared after the dog, completely speechless. Finally, he muttered in disbelief, “I was just told off by my own dog!”

“Hmm. Sucks to be you.” Neal rubbed his nose against Peter’s jeans-covered cock. “And the funniest part is, we didn’t even think about getting frisky.” He giggled softly to himself, finding this absolutely hilarious for some reason.

Peter squirmed away from Neal’s questing nose. “You’re not helping.”

Neal continued to chortle for a few more seconds, but then suddenly grew very quiet. After a long moment, he said carefully, “Peter? I don’t feel so good.”

“I feel bad about this, too,” Peter said. “I mean, we had sex in front of Satch without realizing it. Are we perverts or what?”

“No. No, I mean...” Neal trailed off, holding his stomach, and tried to sit up. He was suddenly very green around the gills.

It took Peter a moment to realize what was going on. “Oh! Hey, Neal, wait, let me help you!” Peter tried to get up, but suddenly felt rather uncoordinated. Why the hell did everything seem off? He felt sluggish and slow, and had to concentrate to stay upright. He finally managed to pull Neal to his feet and, leaning on each other, they made it to the stairs and carefully walked up.

Not for the first time, Peter cursed the fact that they didn’t have at least a half-bath on the first floor.

They barely made it into the bathroom before Neal was violently sick. He hugged the toilet as if it was a lifesaver while Peter made supporting noises and pressed a cool washcloth against Neal’s neck.

But Peter didn’t feel much better. He felt queasy, and watching Neal throwing up, not to mention hearing the retching and smelling the stench, took its toll, and so Peter ended up on his knees next to Neal.

*****

About an hour later, El found the two men sitting on the bathroom floor, completely exhausted, leaning against the bathtub. They moaned and held their stomachs and looked completely and utterly pathetic.

“Oh my god, what happened to you?” El knelt down between them and gently caressed their sweaty faces.

“Dunno. Suddenly got sick.” Peter shrugged a little.

“Did you eat something bad? Food poisoning?” She got a couple of washcloths and lovingly pressed them against the men’s foreheads.

Neal shook his head, whimpered pitifully, and dropped against Peter’s side.

There was a noise coming from the door, and El looked up to see Satchmo standing there, a plate with a few brown crumbs on it in his mouth. El frowned and took the plate. She recognized the crumbs immediately. “Did you eat my brownies?!”

Neal just whimpered again and buried his face in Peter’s shoulder.

Peter tried to smile winningly at his wife. “We didn’t think you’d mind. You made four batches, after all.”

“Yes!” El looked slightly hysterical all of a sudden. “One for Mozzie, one for June, and two for us!”

“So, then what’s the problem?” Peter blinked. He had a hard time focusing on El, who seemed to shimmer in front of him. Sometimes, there were two Els, sometimes even three. The scowl on her face was definitely scary, not to mention completely unlike her. El was compassionate and caring. The way she glared at the two men, however, clearly indicated that there weren’t going to be any bowls of soup, crackers or ginger ale in their immediate future. “El? Honey?”

“Those are _special brownies_ ,” El over-enunciated. “To be eaten in small doses. And not a whole batch in one go!” She threw her hands up in the air. “Men. Idiots.”

“Special...?” Neal frowned, trying to decipher El’s comment. Then his eyes widened in sudden realization. “Do you mean... Did you bake hash brownies?!”

Peter’s eyes widened as well. “They did taste different!” he exclaimed, then immediately winced when the volume hurt his head. “They were delicious! Never had better!”

“I bet.” El glared at the men, hands on her hips. “And no, I didn’t make hash brownies. Mozzie gave me this plant that he said is ten times better than pot. He asked me to try baking brownies with it, and so I did.” She shook her head. “Seriously, I thought I lived with two adults. I should have known better than to leave you two alone with freshly baked brownies. You have the impulse control of a three year old.”

Neal wanted to protest, for the simple fact that it hadn’t been _him_ , it had been _Peter_ who had pilfered the brownies, but he felt too queasy to argue, and so he just sighed and felt sorry for himself.

Peter looked chastened. “I’m sorry, hon,” he mumbled, but El just harrumphed and turned to leave the bathroom. Peter tilted his head until his cheek was pressed against the top of Neal’s head. “Guess that explains why we hallucinated a talking Satchmo, huh?”

El stopped at the top of the stairs and turned back around. “What? No, of course not. Who, do you think, gave me the recipe?” She shook her head at the silly antics of her husband and walked downstairs.

Satchmo, who still sat in the open doorway of the bathroom, gave Peter and Neal a big doggy grin, his tongue lolling and his tail wagging. He looked extremely smug. “Say nope to dope, guys. Just say nope to dope.” He chortled to himself and then sauntered off, leaving the two pitiful men to fend for themselves.

THE END


End file.
